


Soft Boot (Part 1)

by mother_finch



Series: Soft Boot [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: (nonprompt) After an overzealous NYPD officer takes an interest in Root's suspicious death, Detective Lionel Fusco finds that Root's casket is empty save for her cochlear implant. With the possibility of Root still being alive, Sameen Shaw begins the search of a lifetime to uncover what truly happened, if Root is alive, and if John could be as well.-(A fanfiction that takes place after Return 0)





	Soft Boot (Part 1)

**[Action in Progress...**

**> Morningside Park, NYC**

**> >115 St. Security Camera #018**

**> >>23:30, 01/23/2017**

**...Asset on site: Detective Lionel Fusco]**

Lionel Fusco walks, hands in his trench coat pockets, down the cracked pathway to a place he'd rather not be. Not now, anyway. This late at night, this miserable weather. And nothing in hand. Usually, he'd prefer a sunny morning. Maybe a witty remark loaded on his lips that he'd been preparing all day.  _For her._  If he was going to visit her, he needed to make it special.

This? This was not special.

As the misty rain soaks through his coat and mats his curls to his head, Fusco turns the corner, passing dark oak trees and meeting unforgivingly bright lights. Generators whirr, their hum of life growing all the more deafening as he approaches. The white light is harsh-- too harsh.  _It leaves her out in the open, exposed to the world._

When he received the call, only an hour ago, he thought it was a joke. A sick, twisted 'gotcha' from his superiors. Not that they could know how the call would effect him. They had no idea what he had been apart of nearly a year ago. About the technological war of gods he was caught up in. In a way, it made him pity them. They would never know the sacrifices made to keep them safe. In a way, it made him envy them.

"Detective!" a young, bird-like woman calls, waving her arms about in a rain poncho. Sighing, he heads in her direction, slipping under the yellow caution tape and ignoring the looks of every tech he passes. Pulling out his cell, he punches in a number.

**ME: They're exhuming our mutual friend.**

He stashes his phone just before the woman meets him at the outskirts of the graves, too impatient to wait for him to make it to her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she greets, sticking out a hand. He doesn't shake it.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"You know what happened to her, right? The Jane Doe buried under 050313?"

"I was the one who made the call in. I was at the hospital. What about it?"

"That's why I wanted you here," she responds, not quite answering his question. She has a tablet in her left hand, and swipes it on quickly. A picture fills the screen. Brown, curly hair. Marble white skin. Open, glassy eyes.

Root.  _Or, what was left after Root._

Fusco presses his lips together tight, not wanting to reveal the ache in his chest that comes with the image. With seeing a picture of Root like that, stuck on the morgue tray, on that day.  _The day the world went away._

"I don't want to see that," he barks, eyes flittering away. His hands clench into fists. A twinge of anger slithers up his spine, tightening his jaw. He returns his gaze to her, cold. "And who the hell are you, anyway?"

"I'm Kaitlynn Matthews. You can call me Katie. I'm with the NYPD, kind of."

"Kind of?"

"I keep records. But," she adds quickly, seeing Fusco's irritation mount. "Because I'm meticulous, I came across this. And so much more."

"Whatever the ' _more_ ' is, it better outweigh the cost of exhuming a body."  _Exhuming a body_ , he mutters to himself with a bitter laugh.  _As if she's just another body. But maybe, after all this time, that's all she really is?_

He blinks hard, pushing away the dark clouds that threaten the outskirts of his mind, as Katie swipes a few times on her tablet, pulling up a security camera feed. It's date marked May of 2016.

"This is the grave, right after our Jane Doe was buried," she says, transfixed by the video. Fusco nods grimly, not sure why he has to watch this. A minute goes by of nothing. Then two.

"Matthews..." he growls in a warning tone. She holds up a finger.

"Here."

Just then, a woman with dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail walks into shot. She stands a few feet from the grave, seeming to speak. Fusco's blood runs cold.  _Dammit_.

"There's a whole bunch like this," Katie says, scrolling to another day in May. "This one is the last in the month. I don't know who she is."

"If you don't know, why do you care?"

"Because this woman obviously knows our Jane Doe," Katie responds. "Jane Doe was killed by a sniper. A _sniper._  And just gets buried in the ground, no questions asked?"

"It was deemed an accident."

"Oh,  _please_ ," Katie scoffs. "I did some more digging. I couldn't find any rifles that match the bullet from this crime scene that were bought during this time; however, there was a piece of one recovered at Jeffery Blackwell's apartment."

Katie shows Fusco a crime scene photograph of a disassembled rifle.

"You can't prove it was him based off of a piece of a gun."

"I know."

"Did you talk to him?"

"He's dead."

Fusco stops. Gives her a second look.

"What do you mean dead?"

"I mean, the same day as this second grave visit, he winds up shot in his apartment. I don't think it's a coincidence."

Fusco grinds his teeth, gears turning quickly. What to do, what to say. The man that killed Root-- dead. It's an assuring thought. _It's a justified kill, the bastard sure had it coming. But if this tech can trace it back to..._

Fusco's phone buzzes. He clears his throat.

"What are you thinking, if not a coincidence?" he asks.

"She killed him. Revenge kill." Katie scrolls yet again, and Fusco groans inwardly. With every swipe, the evidence mounts. He can't let the evidence mount. "This is me," she says, jarring Fusco from his thoughts. His phone buzzes again, and again, he ignores it. She points to a slender blonde woman standing a few graves up. Then, the small woman with dark hair walks into shot.

"You're doing a lot of field work for someone who files evidence."

"I'm working my way into the field," she shoots back. She turns up the volume on the tablet. "I was staking the grave out for days. Put a little mic on it. Got this." She taps play, and Shaw's voice crackles to life. When was the last time he'd even seen Shaw? A glimpse on a crowded street here, a paid coffee tab there. She hadn't visited him nearly as much as she seemed to visit Root's grave.

"I tell you all the time, this isn't my sort of thing," Shaw starts, voice almost too soft to distinguish. It's like hearing a ghost. "But it's  _your_  sort of thing. And I guess I owe you that." There's only static for a moment. Fusco almost believes it's the end of the tape, but it picks back up. "The Machine's still giving numbers, your voice and all. Still takes some getting used to." Another stretch of silence. Shaw clears her throat. "I, uh... I gotta go. I don't know why I brought this," a chuckle. _Was it a chuckle?_ "Saw it at the drug store, and just... I don't know. Here."

The recording stops, leaving Fusco with an alienated silence. The rain patters around him, but he feels numb. Everything slows.

"She left a tube of black nail polish. I checked the brand, but couldn't trace it back to a store. I also couldn't figure out what type of machine she was talking about."

"What does any of this have to do with digging her up?" Fusco asks, something resigned in his tone. Tired. Weary.

"She's  _got_  to be our killer. Of Blackwell, I mean. So, if we exhume Jane Doe and bring her back to the M.E., I think it'll piss her off."

"You really want to piss off someone who tracked down a sniper and killed him in his own apartment?"

"I want her to come to the precinct. Sniff around and look for her friend. If we can get her to come into the precinct, we know what she looks like. We could arrest her for the murder."

A tech gives the go ahead, and everyone takes a step back from the grave. A crane starts, and the casket is wrenched from the dirt. Fusco turns his gaze away.

"And why did I have to be here?"

"We needed police on seen," she answers simply. "And, considering you were part of this when it started, I thought you'd want to see some justice come out of it."

 _We're a long way from justice_ , Fusco thinks to himself. His phone gives a third, incessant buzz, and his mood sours all the more.

"I gotta make a call," he mutters, turning and stepping outside of the tape. “Bring the whole casket to the eighth.” Unlocking his phone, he reads the messages.

**ME: They're exhuming our mutual friend**

**BLOCKED: Well then stop them, Lionel.**

**BLOCKED: Stop them, or I will.**

**BLOCKED: Nice tie. Stripes are good for you.**

Looking about him quickly, he searches the outlying darkness. His eyes adjust, the outlines of tree branches and benches coming into focus, but he doesn't see her.

**ME: Where are you?**

**BLOCKED: Exactly where I need to be.**

Lip twitching in anger, Fusco storms back the way he came, headed for his squad car. All the while, he searches the tree line. His left hand fumbles subconsciously with his striped tie.

**ME: You need to make yourself scarce. The lead on this is setting a trap for you at the precinct.**

**BLOCKED: Then I'll be careful.**

"Shit," Fusco mutters. He dials the number, holding it up to his ear. Foot tapping. Irritation mounting.

"There is currently no voicemail box set up for this number," a monotonous man's voice says, and he hangs up. With one last glance over his shoulder, he steps into his car, slamming the door.

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Tracking Analog Interface 1...**

**> Clarkson St., NYC**

**> >8th Precinct Security Cameras**

**> >>00:18, 01/24/2017**

**... Asset on site: Detective Lionel Fusco]**

Fusco follows the procession of CSIs and street officers to the morgue. The night shift is sluggishly moving about, eyes meandering curiously to the casket as it's transported to the morgue. No one speaks. Even the graveyard shift knows not to step out of line when Detective Fusco is involved.

He can't help but watch the casket. The dirt that falls from it when they hit a bump. There are no distinguishing marks on it, nothing to signify it ever being Root.  _But she's in there_. All he wanted for her was to rest in peace. After all the hell Root had been through, after all she risked and gave for the war, it was the least she deserved.  _Some peace. But here we are, ripping that peace away from her._ His stomach hurts, and his footsteps slow, not quite wanting to partake.

The casket is laid on a table. The M.E. looks at it peculiarly.

"Usually, we crack them open on scene," she remarks, eyes on Fusco. Her look says that he should know better.

"Raining out there. Don't want anything contaminated," he responds. In all actuality, he was trying to postpone this very moment. The M.E. nods, putting on her gloves and pulling her face mask up. Two techs assist her with crowbars, violently prying off the lid.  _So much for peace_ , he thinks to himself again, guilt seeping into his bones. He sends a prayer her way, as if it can make up for this.  _As if anything could._

With a dusty groan, the casket's lid gives way. The M.E. looks within. Stops. Fusco closes his eyes.  _I can't do this. I can't. I just--_

"Detective?" Katie says, voice shaky.  _God_ , he thinks,  _it's worse than I thought. Even she can't handle it, and she doesn't even know--_

"Detective," she reiterates, stern, and Fusco opens his eyes. Both Katie and the M.E. look stunned.

"What?" he demands. Curiosity swirls in, outweighing his dread, and he takes a step forward. The casket is deceptively deep. Even from only two feet away, he can't see Root's body. He takes another step forward. Still, he can't see her. He leans over the casket, and his jaw goes slack.

"It's..."

"...empty."

Fusco's nerves ignite like a wildfire, every sensor in his skin rippling with excitement and dread and hope and worry.  _Is she alive?_  It's impossible, he saw her body on the table.  _Could she be out there, somewhere? What if someone took her?_

"What's that?" Katie asks, pointing towards the head of the casket. The M.E. pulls out a small, curved device. Fusco stares at it-- at dried brown caked to it.  _Is it dirt? Is it blood?_

"Looks like a cochlear implant," the M.E. answers, though her eyes are on Fusco. He gives her a shrug, just as clueless as she is to the empty casket.

"The physical said she had one," Katie says excitedly. She doesn't need the tablet; she knows this case by heart. "We looked up the serial number, but it wasn't registered to anyone."

"Did you take it out?"

"Definitely not."

"Well," the M.E. sighs, "someone did. And they used less than surgical precision."

Fusco withdraws his phone as the women stare at the implant in wonder.

**ME: Empty coffin.**

**BLOCKED: That's impossible. Machine's got GPS on her.**

**ME: Through the implant? It's the only thing here.**

Fusco waits, but there's no response.

**ME: Hello?**

**BLOCKED: Meet me outside.**

**ME: I told you not to come here.**

**BLOCKED: Meet me outside.**

Stuffing his phone back in his pocket, Fusco slips from the morgue, taking the elevator back to the ground floor. His hands are in his pockets, but they're restless. It's been months since he'd seen Shaw. She said she'd see him when she saw him, but that seemed less than true. They hadn't talked much. He would send a message, but seldom received a response. She only got in touch when she needed a police report or BOLO, but even still, she seemed more than capable of getting the information on her own.

The doors slide open, and Fusco makes a direct line for the front doors. He tries to keep calm, but with every set of eyes that follow him through the precinct, he feels exposed. It's as if everyone knows exactly what he's doing and what he's apart of. He ignores it, pushing through the doors and back into the rain. No one's here. Looking along the sidewalk, he sees the last traces of a ponytail turning into an alley. Head down, he follows.

His palms begin to sweat, heartbeat thudding in his ears. He hadn't felt this rush, this feeling of being seconds from caught, in far too long.  _Not since working with John._

"Losing weight, Lionel? You look different."

Fusco stares into the darkness, but can't see her. He swallows hard.

"You'd be surprised what losing all your friends can do to a guy."

She chuckles.

"I need a favor."

"And I need a yacht in Cabo."

"This is better."

Something hits the ground with a soft thump, and a moment later Bear dashes from the shadows, leash trailing behind. His tail wags excitedly, eyes alight, and Fusco kneels down. Immediately, Bear licks at his face, rubbing his back along Fusco's leg and nuzzling his hands.

"Dog sitting is better than Cabo?"

"He's a pretty great dog."

"Which is why I'm surprised you're parting with him." Grabbing Bear's leash, Fusco stands, tilting his head. He can just make out a dark silhouette on the outskirts of the moonlight. "Got somewhere to be? New apartment not pet-friendly?"

"Some new work just came up. It's going to involve traveling."

"You need help with this work?"

"Yeah. That's why you're dog sitting."

Fusco purses his lips.

"You know what I mean. What are you gonna do, anyway?"

She steps from the shadows. High heels met with black jeans and a black peacoat. Her hands rest in her pockets, but Fusco can see the outline of a gun within her grasp. Her neckline is covered by a dark scarf, and a beanie sits snuggly over her head. Dark hair spills over one shoulder.

Her eyes are haunting. Dark, with circles below. Her cheekbones protrude and her jawline is cutting. It's as if she never regained what was lost during her time in captivity.  _Maybe_ , Fusco thinks to himself,  _she never did_. Her lips are pressed tightly together, as if sealing away the answer to his question. Then, she smiles.

"I'm gonna pay Finch a visit."

"Finch? What does he have to do with this?"

"If Root's not in there, she has to be somewhere. Somewhere the Machine hasn't seen."

"And you think Glasses can do a better job than your all seeing robot overlord?"

"She's not a robot, Lionel."

Footsteps approach, and Fusco peers over his shoulder.

"Detective?" Katie calls. Fusco turns back, mouth parted with a question, only to find he's completely alone in the alleyway.

"Detective?" she calls again. With a sigh, Fusco turns away, heading back toward the precinct.

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[Tracking Primary Asset...**

**> Veneto, Venice**

**> >Sestier de s. Crose Security Cameras**

**> >>09:58, 07/14/2017**

**...Security Target: Admin]**

" _Questo è bello_ ," Harold murmurs with a grin, handing Grace an ice cream cone. Smiling, she places her paint brush down, smearing a splash of blue paint across her forehead before taking the ice cream. He sits at her side, staring at her half-finished canvas. His eyes carry over each detail-- the bricks of the buildings, the gondolas passing by, the shimmer of light on the water. He looks to her, a far more breathtaking sight.

"You like it?" she asks, pushing her red hair behind an ear. Even this early in the morning, the heat of the day is reaching a fever pitch.

"It's more beautiful than the actual thing."

"Oh, you're full of crap," she chuckles, pushing him playfully. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her into a side hug, kissing her forehead.

"It's beautiful. Just like everything you make." They'd been in Venice for a few months now, traveling to wherever Grace's work needed her, and Harold was more than smitten. After everything he'd gone through, after all the people he lost, Grace is one person he decided he wouldn't lose again. She was everything he'd ever wanted, and he wasn't going to let a single moment pass by without appreciating every detail. He knows how priceless the details can be.

"Tell me about them again."

"Hm?"

"Your friends. In New York. Tell me about them." Grace looks up at him, shimmering blue eyes reflecting the waters before them. He sighs with a smile.

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me more about John. A happy memory."

"Happy... let me see..." he looks out to the people bustling by. All oblivious to the Machine. Always listening, always watching. For so long, he was both fearful of the power and humbled by it. But now, after all that's happened, there's a sense of assurance in it. He can't control the world around him, he can't save everyone, and it's not his burden to. It's not anyone's.

A smile curls onto his features, finding the perfect memory.

"There was a gala for a number-- antique thief," Harold sneaks a glance at Grace, whose brows raise at the crime. He grins. "Mr. Reese was getting ready, but for the life of him, he couldn't get the bowtie on."

"Well, you said he wasn't a tie guy."

"Certainly not. But I just remember trying to help him, and he was so frustrated. He said to me that he could field strip a .45 in the dark, of course he could handle a bowtie."

Grace laughs, hands pressed together as she rocks back. He loves that laugh. Everything about her, really, but especially the laugh. Seeing her so happy, after everything he put her through, it reminds him of the days before he ever left.

"Did he get it?"

"With help."

"Oh, he must have hated that."

Harold nods, eyes wide. She laughs again, and he melts. So does his ice cream. With a wet plop, the vanilla ice cream slides from the cone, smattering his pants in white. Looking down, he stands quickly, letting the large glob of melting ice cream drop to the ground.

"Let me get you a napkin," Grace says, beginning to stand. He puts up a hand.

"No, no, I'll get it. I'll be right back."

Beginning back to the ice cream cart, Harold tosses what's left of the cone into the trashcan. Even with the white smear down his pants, he can't help but smile. These days, it seems to be his default.

" _Due tovaglioli, per favore_ ," he says, receiving the napkins from the man at the stand. Starting away, he stops at a nearby bench and begins blotting his pants.

"You're a hard man to find, Finch."

Harold freezes, napkin mid-stroke. Her voice clicks instantly, but he barely believes it. He turns.

"Ms. Shaw..."

"We have a problem."

"How did you find me?"

"It took six months, don't be too down on yourself."

He looks her over, still in disbelief. It's been over a year since he'd last seen her, and they hadn't spoken once. After finding Grace, he tried his best to cover his tracks, keeping his head down. Sure, the Machine would know-- the Machine always knew-- but She never would have given up the information. The only reason he knew the Machine had survived was from the message he'd received: 'Your secret's safe with me, Harry.' The secret of leaving. Of finding Grace. Of remaining invisible.

"What are you doing here?"

"Like I said, we have a problem. NYPD exhumed Root's grave in January."

"There's no evidence on Ms. Groves that could have lead them back to us."

"It's not that. There was no body in the casket."

Harold's brow furrows. He balls the napkins in his fist.

"She's--"

"Missing. Missing could mean alive."

"After all this time?" Harold asks. There's an excitement in Shaw's eyes, a glow persisting behind the stoic mask.

"I was captured for about this amount of time.  _I_ was still alive. John could be too."

"That's impossible," Harold spits, throwing up his hands. He doesn't want to hear it. It was painful enough to lose John, the idea of tearing open that wound again on such a small thread of hope seems unbearable.

"No body in that one; no body in this one. I need your help."

"I have no help to give."

"You  _can_  help me find them."

"If they were alive, the Machine would know."

"Harold?"

Harold turns at the sound of Grace's voice. She approaches apprehensively, eyeing Shaw with suspicion, then curiosity.

"Have we met before?" Grace asks, coming forward.

"Once," Shaw answers, not delving into any further detail. Taken aback, Grace looks to Harold for clarity.

"This is Sameen Shaw."

Grace's eyes grow to saucers, a ghost of a smile on her face.

"Oh my God, Harold, this is great!" Closing the distance between them quickly, Grace wraps Shaw in a hug. Shaw remains stiff, arms at her sides. "It's so good to have you here. I've heard so much about you. You have to come to dinner with us. Are you staying in the area?" Grace pulls away, holding Shaw at arm's length. "If you are, cancel the reservations. You can stay with us. You're family."

"Thanks," Shaw says, taking a step back and slipping free of Grace's grasp. Her eyes are intense on Harold. "But I wasn't planning on sticking around." Grace looks between the two.

"Harold, what's going on?"

"Do you know about Root and John?" Shaw answers instead, met with a flare of anger in Harold's eyes. Grace nods. "They might be alive."

"That's wonderful! How can you know for sure?"

"I need his help," Shaw says, nodding Harold's way. "In New York."

"I told you," Harold fumes, "if anyone could help, it would be the Machine."

"You're better with computers than me," Shaw shoots back. "If there's any chance that they're still alive, I need to know. Don't  _you_?"

The two watch each other, a silent stalemate brewing between them.

"Go with her," Grace says, shattering their stare. Harold blinks, looking to her in confusion. "Go find your friends."

"But if I go back--"

"I know the dangers."

"I might not be able to come back here. Days, weeks, months... indefinitely."

Grace looks at him, a calm flowing from her as she smiles.

"Even when I thought you were dead, I waited for you. Knowing you're alive, I can wait again."

Harold's jaw slackens, not wanting the goodbye to come. Unable to believe there has to be a goodbye.

"These people saved your life," Grace continues. "I think you should repay the favor."

Harold's eyes harden as his lips press shut. He nods. Grabbing Grace's hand, he gives it a squeeze.

"You're sure?" he asks. Leaning in, she gives him a kiss.

"Completely."

Dropping his hand from Grace's, Harold slips away, coming to Shaw's side.

"Ready?"

"If you're not bringing anything with you," she responds. She gives him a look over. Already, the smile he wore is gone, replaced with the seriousness that she'd always known in him.

"I travel light."

"Then we've got a one way to JFK to catch."

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**[...Loading... Samaritan Systems...**

**> Soft Boot initiate**

**> >Server #0056668713**

**> Hard Booting offline systems...**

**...Closed circuit test initiating...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> >Gathering Location Data**

**> >> June 22, 2016, searching system for time stamp**

**...Primary Agent: Jeremy Lambert, Active Status**

**... Present System Threats: Root]**

A black bag is ripped from Root's head, the sterile brightness of the room blinding. She shuts her eyes immediately, the white light still searing through her eyelids. She's unsure how long she's been here, or how long she's been in the dark.  _It has to be a few weeks, at least_ , she thinks to herself. The dull ache in the back of her ear still persists where they tore out her cochlear implant. It's healing-- the scab is smaller than before, and the puffy scar that's yet to smooth down slithers beside her first.

The coldness dissipated a few days ago. The blood loss was brutal, almost deadly. Almost. She's not sure what would have been worse, the Hell that was undoubtedly waiting for her after all the bad she's done, or this place.  _Probably this place_ , she thinks to herself with a chuckle.  _It's the little things that keep you sane around here._

She peels open her eyes. The brightness is almost bearable, and looking around, she finds herself in an entirely white room. It's empty save for the person across from her, strapped into a chair with a bag over his head. He looks like death. Tattered clothes and fresh injuries still seeping. Dried blood and what looks like severe burns. His knuckles are stripped to the bone, blood beginning to blossom from them as he tightens his grip around the arms of his chair.

 _That's one thing we have in common_ , she muses, looking down at her own hands. Her knuckles are raw, fingernails torn jaggedly with blood caked under them. She hadn't been making life easy for the Samaritan agents. She never would. The restraints dig into her wrists as she repositions herself. Her wrists are purple with bruises, and as much as she wants to fight, she knows better than to struggle against the restraints.  _Save your energy._

Footsteps click into the room, echoing from every wall. It's piercing on her right side, but she refuses to show it. Eyes flickering over, she sees Lambert approaching, arms folded. She glowers at him, lips tugging in a sneer. He puts a finger to his lips, motioning for her to remain silent.

"I've brought you a friend," he says to her, almost giddy. "I know how lonely it's been for you in here."

She opens her mouth to retort, but again, he places a finger over his mouth.

"Before you get up in arms about it, at least see who it is."

Grabbing the black bag from the man's head, Lambert tears it off with dramatic flair, as if pulling a rabbit from a hat. Root's eyes lock on the icy blue ones across from her, and the angry heat in her veins runs cold.

"Thought you were dead," John croaks, small smile on his lips past the pain. His eyes reflect a sharp pang, mouth faltering, but with a cough he returns to a collected state. "Guess I should have known better."

"What did they do to you?" Root asks. His eyes begin to haze over, distancing himself from the pain.

"The usual. Some bullets, some high grade missile launches. Fusco said you took a hit to the abdomen?"

"Just a scratch, really."

John chuckles. Coughs. Fades.

"Everyone thinks I'm dead?"

John nods.

"Even..."

"Shaw? Yeah."

Root looks past him, letting the answer sink in.  _That's a good thing_ , she tells herself.  _If she knew, she'd try to find us, and then she'd be in just as much shit as we are._

"The Machine talking to you?" John asks. "Got an escape plan brewing?"

"I wish," Root answers, scrunching her nose. "They took out the implant. GPS would've given me away. So, if you ever say anything to me, make sure you tell it to my good side," she adds, turning her right ear John's way. He smiles.

"I'll make sure to only bad mouth you on your left."

"I'd say that's enough catching up for the day, hm?" Lambert asks, stepping between them, his focus on Root. "There's a lot of work to do."

"He won't be doing any work unless you patch him up," Root remarks, eyes flickering to John.

"We stitched up the bullet holes," Lambert replies, tugging the bag back down over Root's eyes. "We'll fix the rest after we get some answers."

"He'd rather die of septic shock."

"It's true," John chimes in, and Root smirks. He fastens the back around her neck.

"He's not the one who's going to be answering the questions." The sharp pinch of a syringe finds its way into her hand, and icy liquid slides through her veins. "You wouldn't want to be responsible for his death, now, would you?" Her senses blur, sound and touch and taste all mingling with the thickness of cotton. Her fingers tighten on the chair, trying to hold on. Trying to remain grounded. It's useless. It's nothingness. She slips away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! This is going to be a couple parts long, taking place after “Return 0.” It’s not a prompt (sorry) just a storyline that popped into my head. I’m going to try and have all the parts posted within the month-- I’m not sure yet how many parts there will be. Maybe three or four?
> 
> I really hope you all liked this, and please let me know what you think! Also, the titles starting with brackets are meant to be The Machine or Samaritan filing through their data. Not sure if it made sense. Let me know if it’s unclear, and I’ll try my best to clean it up!


End file.
